


The Itch

by interflora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:21:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interflora/pseuds/interflora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt by smalltrolven for the Hot Fun in the Summertime comment fic meme: Sam and/or Dean get poison oak/ivy after a hunt in the woods. Calamine lotion must be applied by the other brother. Long oatmeal baths must be taken and someone has to clean out the motel room bathtub. Reminders about not scratching are frequent. And the sufferer gets mad with all the mother-henning and then gets even somehow.</p><p>---------------------------------------</p><p>“Dean! It’s not that low!”</p><p>“Sorry, Sammy. My mistake.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Itch

**Author's Note:**

> More summer fic fun! \o/ Comments & kudos appreciated as always.

“Dean! It’s not _that_ low!”

                “Sorry, Sammy. My mistake,” Dean sniggers.

                Sam whirls on Dean and slaps his hand away. Dean’s fingers had been dipping below the waistband of his shorts as he spread globs of soothing Calamine lotion all over his back. But, like he said, he hadn’t gotten poison ivy quite _that_ far down his back.

                He’s covered pretty much everywhere else, though, in patches of angry red that itch like crazy.

                Dean’s just being his usual obnoxious self, trying to make a bad situation worse for Sam by embarrassing the hell out of him at every turn.

                “I’ll take that,” Sam snaps, snatching the pink bottle of lotion out of Dean’s hand.

                “Suit yourself, kiddo. Lemme know if you need help reaching anywhere else,” Dean cackles and leaves the bathroom of the motel, kicking his feet up on the coffee table while he lounges on the sofa and flips through the six channels of TV they get.

                This is so not the way Sam wants to be spending his first week as a legal adult—scratching and having to fend his older brother turned mother hen off every time he turns around.

                The beginning of May had had fair weather, which meant Sam and Dean had spent Sam’s birthday crouched in a tangle of brush, waiting for John’s signal. Their dad had been trying to flush out a particularly nasty wendigo from its lair in the foothills, leaving Sam and Dean to hide in the woods and cut it off if necessary.

                Somehow, Dean had completely avoided the poison ivy and Sam had no idea how it’d managed to spread so thoroughly on him, even to places covered by his clothes.

                “Seriously, Sammy, you okay?” Dean calls from the couch.

                “Yeah, quit asking.”

                “Stop itching.”

                “ _You_ stop itching,” Sam mutters.

                “What?”

                “Nothing,” Sam yells back.

                “I’m gonna make a store run, you need anything besides a flea collar?”

                “ _Dean_ I don’t have _fleas—”_

Dean’s laughter is cut short as he slams the door behind him.

                *

                Sam sits up in bed, scratching his forearm absently. It’s too hot to sleep and he’s itchy and John still isn’t back yet.

                He’s careful getting up so as not to wake Dean. Even when the other bed was empty, Dean still chose to sleep next to Sam every time.

                “Just in case,” he always said, though Sam was never sure exactly what he meant.

                Dean mumbles but stays down and Sam pads to the bathroom.

                He yawns and flicks the light switch on, scratching his left shoulder.

                Every bit of skin not covered by his t-shirt seems to be scarlet, even with the frequent applications of Calamine.

                Resigned to the worst, he peels off his shirt, too, and sure enough, it’s just as bad on his chest and stomach.

                “That looks like it hurts.”

                Dean’s leaning against the doorframe, boxers low on his hips. Not for the first time, Sam has to repress a twinge of jealousy. Dean’s always had it so easy, all filled-out muscle and tough sinew. He hardly ever gets sick, even after eating a mountain of diner food with questionable origins or after spending a night in the rain waiting on orders. Sam’s the one with hay fever and allergies, with bad luck and no grace.

                “I lifted some real towels from the five star joint in town,” Dean grins, holding out a stack of plush, fluffy towels. They’re a pleasant shade of beige and look as though they cost more money than Dean could hustle in a dozen games of pool. “And the rich chicks had enough bath shit to supply an entire brothel.”

                “Thanks for the image,” Sam says, wrinkling his nose.

                “Seriously, this oatmeal stuff’s supposed to help with dry skin and the itching.”

                “I’m okay,” Sam mumbles, pulling his t-shirt back on and making to pass Dean.

                Dean doesn’t budge.

                “I’m gonna run you a bath,” he says.

                “Dean, I—”

                “Just shut up, okay?”

                Dean shoves him back towards the tub and Sam grumbles.

                Sam sits perched on the edge of the tub while Dean runs the water, passing his hand under the faucet to check the temperature every so often.

                Sam scratches the biggest patch on his forearm every time Dean’s distracted, flinching at how dry his skin is to the touch but still experiencing a few seconds of relief every time he gets the itch under control even for a moment.

                “Get in,” Dean says, gesturing towards the steaming bath.

                “You gonna let me take my clothes off first?” Sam gripes.

                “If you’re quick. Otherwise I’m just gonna push you in as is.”

                Once he’s stripped down and submerged in the hot water, Sam has to admit the oatmeal bath feels incredible. Sam sighs and leans back against the grimy porcelain of the motel tub.

                “That better?” Dean asks.

                “Yeah,” Sam says.

                “Good. See, sometimes I know what I’m talking about.”

                “Sometimes,” Sam nods.

                “So just sit tight, okay?”

                “Okay,” Sam nods, too tired to argue. He slumps down in the bath, letting the water flood over his itchy shoulders.

                Dean leaves the bathroom door open and Sam can hear the soft drone of the TV in the next room. He knows Dean’s listening to him, too.

                When he decides he’s had enough and starts to drain the water, Dean’s there in a heartbeat, helping him out of the tub like he’s a little kid, hovering and putting his arm around Sam’s waist. He at least has the decency to avert his eyes while Sam wraps a towel around his waist, but as soon as Sam’s done he’s there again, all guiding hands.

                “C’mon, I got you.”

                “Dean, I can dry myself off.”

                “Let me,” Dean says.

                Sam gives in with a heavy sigh, lifting his arms.

                This is the kind of shit he’s been pushing against lately because no one he’s ever met has a brother that won’t even let him dry himself off. Dean forgets he’s not five years old anymore so much of the time.

                It doesn’t help that Dean never bothered to get dressed and Sam can’t help but admire his big brother’s body and feel twice as annoyed. No red patches on Dean, no bones showing through the skin in places where he’s too skinny because he’s had some freakish growth spurts lately.

                Dean towels him gently, patting the red patches of Sam’s skin with soft, clean cotton and it feels so good that Sam can forget how embarrassing it is. But then Dean gets a dry towel for his hair and starts massaging his scalp and Sam’s like putty in his hands.

                “Feel good, Sammy?”

                “Shuddup,” Sam mutters. “’S Sam.”

                “Sure, Sammy. C’mere.”

                Dean guides him back to the bed.

                “Lay out,” he commands. “I’m gonna clean out the tub and then I’ll be right back.”

                Sam’s still too sleepy and comfortable to disobey, so he collapses on the bed, listening to the scraping sounds coming from the bathroom as Dean tries to get all the oatmeal powder out of the bathtub.

                Sam’s just starting to drift off when a warm weight settles on the mattress next to him.

                “Hey, you still with me?”

                “Mmph,” Sam mutters into a pillow.

                And then there’s the cool, wet sensation of Calamine lotion again and Sam has to physically restrain himself from groaning it feels so good. Dean’s hands are on his back and his touch is surprisingly light, skimming over the worst of Sam’s rashes and leaving a trail of cooling lotion.

                “I put your dirty clothes in a bag by the door,” Dean says conversationally.

                “Dean, you shouldn’tve—”

                “What? It’s not contagious.”

                “It is if the plant oil got on my shirt and it probably did since—”

                And then the weight on the mattress is suddenly beside him, Dean’s heat soaking through his skin as he lays out next to him on the bed and Sam’s extremely conscious of the fact there’s only a couple of _very_ thin layers of cotton separating his body from his brother’s.

                “W-what’re you—?”

                “Relax, Sam.”

                Sam’s having more than a little trouble with that once Dean’s mouth moves to his neck, soft kisses with the faintest edge of teeth.

                But Dean’s not supposed to—how could he know? How could he know what Sam thinks about him, the things he’s never said out loud, not once—

                Sam’s train of thought ends in a massive wreck because Dean’s lips are on his, full and somehow softer than any girl’s, and he’s kissing Sam like he’s never been kissed before. Sam tries to keep quiet but a small noise gets stuck in his throat and he moans into Dean’s mouth.

                Dean laughs, tangling a hand in Sam’s shaggy hair to pull him closer.  

                “You worry too much,” Dean says, biting down on Sam’s lower lip just hard enough to make Sam gasp.

                And yeah, maybe Sam does, but he won’t be doing any of that for the rest of the night because he’s pretty sure that bite just short-circuited whatever brain power he has left.

                *

                Sam wakes early the next morning wrapped snugly in blankets. His arms itch dully but overall it’s much better. He doesn’t feel like the sheets are going to start a fire against his skin if they brush against each other anymore.

                A strange sound is coming from the bathroom and the space in the bed next to him is empty.

John must be back with a few new injuries and Dean’s probably cleaning him up. Same ol’.

Sam sits up and pushes the comforter off himself, yawning, thinking he’ll see what he can do to help.

Instead, the sight that greets him when he pushes the door open is Dean scratching feverishly at red splotches on his arms.

“Go back to bed!” Dean barks, ears turning as red as the rashes on his and Sam’s arms.

“You okay?” Sam asks, stepping towards Dean. “Did it spread much?”

                “I said go back to bed, Sam,” Dean growls, shielding his arms from Sam’s view.

                “Not so fast,” Sam says, getting as close to Dean as his brother will allow. He grabs for the hem of Dean’s shirt and tugs it upwards, revealing more of the vivid red rash splashed all over his torso.

                “Now you can say ‘I told you so’,” Dean says, gritting his teeth.

                “Not what I was gonna say,” Sam says quietly, his fingers brushing Dean’s wrist absently as he examines the rashes on his arms. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

                “Yep.”

                *

                Sam’s perched on the edge of the tub again and dips his long legs in the water, too, to ease some of the lingering itch.

                “Stop scratching your shoulders,” Sam warns. “And come closer, I need to get your back.”

                Dean pulls his knees under his chin, scowling, and scoots back towards Sam in the tub.

                “I hate you.”

                “I know,” Sam smirks. “But see, sometimes, I know what I’m talking about, too.”


End file.
